


Quiet Night Out

by EmHunter



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/F, Girls Kissing, Lesbian Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22817332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmHunter/pseuds/EmHunter
Summary: Sara sneaks off to a lesbian club in Barcelona and has a one night stand with a quiet stranger.
Relationships: Sara Crispino/Katsuki Mari
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	Quiet Night Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Linisen, Nicole and Bunny because they are shameless enablers and I love them for it. 💓

The bathroom lights are very red and pink. Sara is looking at herself in the floor to ceiling mirror, adjusts her hair, and marvels at how great her smokey eyes came out. Every cell of her body is vibrating with the excitement of being here, every nerve swinging with the feeling of having escaped her brother and sneaked out into this adventure she has decided she is ready for.

She’s going out tonight.

All.

Out.

The image staring back at her looks beautiful. She would definitely get under that herself. She’swearing her lucky shoes - the favourite high heeled strapped sandals in the colour of her eyes. The winter night bit her toes in them but it was worth it because they make her legs look endless. The purple high-neck, cold-shoulder crop top has long sleeves but shows off her well-toned stomach. She’s foregone a bra, wanting to feel scandalous as the smooth wool scrapes over her nipples whenever she moves. The black jeans are the tightest she has but they make her curves look even curvier. She knows because Mickey nearly had a heart attack when he saw her arse in them. She frowns briefly at the outline of her phone in her pocket, but who needs a handbag as extra weight when you want to spread your wings and fly? The money for drinks and a taxi is squeezed into the small pouch inside her phone case along with the keycard to her room. 

Tonight she’s extra. She looks like herself but she isn’t. Every single part of her has been brought out to shine the brightest. She is glorious, and sexy, and she should know, because she has been making love to herself for the past ten years and never not felt good about her body.

The first floor of the club she chose for her little adventure is dark and throbbing with the hammering beats from four walls of speakers. Multi-coloured laser beams cut through the heaving bodies and make the invisible visible for one fleeting caress long. Sara has a glass of sweetest cocktail in her hand that she can barely see but that seems to contain more alcohol than she thinks because it goes straight to her head. She gives herself to the rhythm, rides the pounding waves of ‚Titanium‘ and ‚Flames‘ and ‚Running With the Wolves’ and a whipping Spanish hard rock song. Eyes are on her, she can feel them in the dark, hungrily lapping up every brief glimpse they’re allowed of her whenever a beam of light caresses her body. When she feels a stranger’s hand brush very gently over the bare small of her back, she slips away from the dance floor, puts down her empty glass on the nearest surface she can find and vanishes from the darkness.

The second floor is dimly lit and has several podiums on which girls dance with our without poles.

The music is harsh and electric, not to Sara’s taste. She watches for a while, nursing another cocktail on one of those small high tables that she knows makes her arse look absolutely delectable when she raises up one foot on the metal cross-brace at the lower end of the table and rests her weight on her arms on the table top, pushing her arse out in the movement of doing so. Nobody is trying to come on stronger than she allows, that’s why she picked this particular place from the thousands of reviews she read online. She soaks up every look she draws, every thought about her, every wish to touch her, kiss her. Later in the night, back alone in her bed, she will conjure up all this desire and her own hands will become all of theirs ascending on her body and worshipping her until she burns.

The third floor feels like home. There’s a bar and a dance floor, and there are quite some people here but it’s not crowded. It’s dimly lit, comfortable sofas are arranged around a small dance floor. There are couples dancing, others resting on the sofas. Some people are sitting by the bar. A familiar 80s ballad is coming through the speakers. It feels like a favourite blanket snuggling her in.

She gets another drink, even though she is already feeling lightheaded. She dances over to the DJ and wrestles the promise of a couple of her favourites out of him in her rudimentary Spanish that is based on nothing but the similarity to her native tongue.

Sara dances. She’s feeling comfortably warm and snug from all the drinks she’s had and she knows she should probably have some water now, but not until this song is over. Long before she was born this song caused a scandal in her home country because the lyrics very openly depict masturbation and it was not something the Catholic Church was happy about. How lucky she is that her parents and brother never found out about the CD she hid under a loose wooden plank under the bed in her room, and that they never knew what this song made her do under the blanket when she was alone with it and her headphones.

Sara is sitting by the bar, legs swaying on the high chair while her cheeks are positively glowing, and she feels very hot in her outfit now. She has changed to water, knowing that she’ll need some sort of grip on herself if she wants to get back safely to her hotel.

She felt the brown eyes on her before while she was dancing.

Now, they are mere inches away from her, in a face propped up on one elbow on the bar. Sara props her head up on her hand as well, drinking water through a straw as she studies the brown, almond-shaped eyes and the short brown hair of the woman beside her. Her hair is partially bleached, and her ears are pierced all over. Sara counts two cartilage rings and three studs in each ear.

She is dressed simply in jeans and a black T-shirt. Her face is edgy and surprisingly unrefined for an Asian. But Sara has been crushing hard ever since she can remember on one of her country’s most famous lesbian singers and lost herself in her harsh features and prominent nose, her pretty eyes and husky voice. Apparently she has a type.

„Is this your first time here, too?“ Sara asks the dumbest question she can possibly think of.

There’s timid silence for a long time. Sara wonders if she understands English at all.

Then, finally. An answer.

„I’m sorry… English... I don’t know it well.“ Her voice is a lazy drawl, heavily accented.

„No problem.“ Sara isn’t sure whether it’s just the liquor talking but she feels reckless.

Adventurous.

“No names.“ She says. “Just fun. Okay?”

A nagging little voice at the back of her head approves strongly. If Mickey ever does find out - and she hasn’t completely counted out yet that he is either GPS tracking her or has installed cameras in her hotel room - at least she won’t be able to give him a name when he sets out on the warpath.

Almond eyes become even narrower as they eye her carefully. Then, a nod. A hint of a smile.

They fall silent, just looking, feeling the feelers that have caught on a strange attraction between them align and move towards each other centimetre by centimetre. Sara’s heart is jumping madly in her chest. She has never felt so excited before.

Sara is laughing. She is moving in close, close enough that their knees touch.

The smoke of a cigarette curls lazily between them as Sara’s head is met halfway and they lean in like only two people who are very familiar with each other - or like two people very attracted to one another. Sara moves in close enough that she can brush her cheek against the rows of piercings. They feel cold and arousing against her tender skin. She breathes in and there is no obtrusive perfume, just a heady blend of clean skin and cigarettes and fabric softener. Close enough that her breath hits skin, she feels the shiver she sends down the other woman’s spine just by breathing, by existing.

They are dancing.

She hitches her leg high up the other’s waist and its met with a warm hand on her hip and another under her arse, holding her up and pulling her closer. The other woman is taller than Sara, and somehow standing close together, they fit. Sara cannot resist. She bends over backwards as far as she can, hair almost brushing the floor, knowing that from where the other woman is looking down at her she gets a perfect view of Sara’s bare breasts as her top slides up in the movement. She finds herself swung in just the slightest half circle until she is hitched up again almost possessively and comes to rest against a warm body. Sara can feel the heat pooling between her legs. Her nipples are hard, oversensitive to the top’s fabric.

It’s a mellow Melissa Etheridge song they are dancing to.

Their gazes practically melt into each other, their faces so close together that they can draw from each other’s breath. Sara has both hands in the bleached hair, tugging lightly and feeling what it does. The hand still under her arse slips down her thigh, groping just the slightest bit possessively. Both of them want to feel that without a layer of denim between them, they can see it in each other’s eyes.

_You’ve been looking for something that’s not in your life… my intentions are true, won’t you take me with you?_

Sara is panting, their mouths almost touching, pining to be kissed.

_Come on baby let’s get out of this town…_

They are out of the room and hurrying to get their coats before the song is over.

Sara is nervous. She is sitting in the back of a taxi to her hotel, and she’s not alone. This is not how she had planned this out, but it’s exactly what she wants. She trusts her gut feeling. She doesn’t feel any threat from this woman, just mutual consent, they’ve established as much in their broken English.

Outside, Barcelona is bustling with nightlife, but inside the car it’s quiet. The radio is playing very lowly, someone is talking in Spanish. Maybe the news. She doesn’t know what time it is. She doesn’t care. She turns her face to the side and meets the gaze of the brown eyes she’s been sinking deeper and deeper into for the last two hours or so.

They are sitting very timidly side by side. Not touching. Sara guesses that this is the Asian restraint she’s heard so much about and that she’s encountered in so many Asian skaters. 

The moment they step inside Sara’s hotel room and the door closes, all Asian timidness is gone.

Sara finds herself shoved into the wall by the door and her mouth assaulted in a hungry kiss. She returns it eagerly, hands clutching so hard in short hair that she knows it’ll sting, but the tongue pushing so mercilessly between her lips probably makes sure it isn’t even noticed. Hands are under her top within an instant, twisting her aching nipples so hard she moans into the kiss. They pull apart for air and her top is tugged over her head within seconds. She feels a hand between her thighs and grinds down hard. She is so wet by now she can feel herself clenching with need.

Eager hands come to the front of her jeans but they are too tight, it’s impossible for the searching hand to slip in.

„ _kuso!_ “ The harsh curse cuts through the room.

Low chuckles in the dark ensue as they move over the bed and try to struggle Sara’s very tight jeans and her shoes off of her. The room is almost completely in darkness, there is merely the warm orange glow of a street lamp coming in through the window because Sara forgot to draw the blinds. It allows them to just about see each other, but hides every unwelcome thought. Sara laughs quietly; getting her clothes off feels more difficult than any programme she’s ever skated and she’s glad she’s sitting down on the bed. She still manages to catch the regret in the woman’s face when her heels have to come off. The way her hands slow down and caress Sara’s calves and ankles and toes almost hungrily over the purple straps. The regret is palpable and suddenly Sara wants to keep them on, too, wants to part her legs for this woman with her lucky shoes still on. But they need to go, or else they’ll never get those jeans off of her.

Sara falls back on the bed from the exhaustion, legs over the edge, just catching her breath for a moment. It hitches in her throat when she feels a hand on each of her knees and her legs being gently being pushed apart. Suddenly she feels open, exposed. The tiny string, the only kind of underwear that could possibly be worn under a pair of jeans like these, is little more than a soaked thread and not much cover. The moment it’s pulled aside by zealous fingers, Sara knows there’s no way back.

Sara is panting. Her hands are clutching the bed cover so tightly in her hands that the folds become one with the lines in her palms. She feels worshipped, by the hands running up and down her thighs. By the mere fact alone that someone would be on their knees before her with their tongue up her folds. One of her hands flies to her mouth and she bites down hard to stifle a scream as the mouth eating her out becomes more eager, tongue pushing roughly inside and licking her out, lips sucking on her clit until she comes. Only there’s still hunger, and Sara finds herself oversensitive and helplessly elated as that eager mouth just keeps fucking her until her head is thrashing on the bed and her hips are rocking into the onslaught of lust like in a fever.

Sara is exploring. It’s such a different body from her own. There are angles where she has curves. Small breasts with prominent nipples, one of them pierced. Sara is working them between her fingertips, drawing the softest sounds from the other woman. She’s expressing her lust quietly. Gasps. Maybe more of that Asian timidness, Sara thinks.

Then.

“ _motto_... _kimochi_...” So breathless.

In the brief span of time Sara frantically wonders what this could possibly mean a memory sinks inthat they cannot understand the languages they speak.

“Stronger. Please.” A clipped, husky plea in the dark.

Sara obliges, remembers countless nights she spent in her bed increasing the force of this action, exploring the fine lines between pleasure and pain.

“More. _Stronger_!”

Sara’s eyes widen. She is sure she is exercising pain by now but the accelerated breath and the husky moans speak of nothing but pain-laced pleasure. She uses her fingers as roughly as she can without clamps, trying to call up what she ever read about pierced nipples and hopes she’s right about the added stimulation and sensitivity. Sara is completely sober now. She feels so brave in almost darkness, she just. Feels. Subconsciously, instinctively, she lowers her mouth and begins an eager process of licking, sucking, tasting, skin and metal. The body beneath hers becomes restless and she concentrates very hard on increasing the pressure of every single one of her administrations until something feral takes over and she gently bites down on the unpiercednipple in her mouth. The woman cries out softly, the body beneath her bucks. Sara wonders if she just made her come already just like this, and god, she hopes so, she wants this pride.

Sara is flying. She has been flipped onto her back and she knows the way she spreads her legs is shameless and she doesn’t care. The fingers driving in and out of her are driving her insane, and she bites down repeatedly on one corner of her blanket to keep the noise down.

“Please... yes.... yes! God!” Sara’s frantic heartbeat is hammering the air out of her voice, makes her stutter, and breathless. She needs. So much. Needs these slim fingers stroking her inside out, that thumb circling her clit until she sees white before her closed eyes. Sara laughs when she comes. She’s suspected as much but it rarely happens when she’s by herself, only when she uses one of the biggest, fastest toys in her secret box that sends her over the edge within a few minutes, the sensations overwhelming.

Sara is completely sober now but she is absolutely high on this woman’s scent, her texture, her taste. She maps her body with her mouth and hands like the foreign country that she is to her, brave and adventurous. Sara finds two more piercings and wonders briefly how much it hurt to have them and how much lust that caused. Pleasure followed by pleasure, Sara is fleetingly reminded of something as she boldly buries her fingers inside throbbing wet heat and wishes they would never tire because this might just be the best night of her life.

The quiet desire of this woman drives Sara slightly crazy. She wishes she could bring more noise from her. Every sound she makes doesn’t fit the rough passion, cannot take off the edge of lust laced with pain. The premonition is strong that this woman who is so eager, who is pierced in the most intimate parts of her body, has meticulously learned how to voice this arousal in the quietest possible way.

It lies around her like a veil that Sara wants to tear.

Is this the reason she is so quiet? Does she need to be overwhelmed by sensation because she cannot use her voice?

They are coming down from another high, lying panting and crushed together as they catch their breath. Sara sighs against an angled shoulder and wishes for her secret box. The things they could do to each other if they had more than their hands and mouths to give each other pleasure! After years of pining self-love it feels overwhelming to have another body on top of her, and she knows she wants too much, wishing to put everything she never had into just one night. But they are never going to see each other again, and Sara wants them both to have whatever they can give.

Sara is raising herself up until she’s upright, straddling the woman beneath her and just getting a kick out of the hooded glance up at her. Slender fingers delve deep between Sara’s thighs, and her eyes fly open and she gasps when she feels a teasing fingertip where she’s never been touched before. It’s gone before she can really notice it was there, and she’s panting.

A smile flashes up at her in the moonlight that carries a spark of familiarity, too small to ever flicker into flame. Sara forgets about it the moment her lips are taken by storm in another kiss and she is rolled over on the bed and pinned under an eager, hot body that makes her own flesh tremble and sing. She forgets everything but the giving and taking until her hotel room is filled once more with quiet moans and even quieter laughter.

Because this, Sara understands. She knows all the ways of putting on a front. She knows the need for privacy. She excels at finding pleasure without her voice.

They may have different reasons but this is their common ground: the need to keep lust a secret, from family, from others, from thin walls, from a whole country and its conventions if need be.

They have no common language to speak but they understand each other.

Instead of tearing the veil, Sara draws it closer around the two of them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Not nearly enough hours later Sara is walking through the hotel foyer. She woke up alone, naked, nerves humming, still wet between her legs. Smiling from ear to ear. Like from a great distance she can hear her brother laying into her about not opening her door when he came round to check on her last night. She is in that blissfully trance-like state where her body is fully awake while her mind is still trying to catch up.

„Micky, for god’s sake, I was asleep! Stay away from my room at night!“ she manages to say.

The restaurant is heaving with the breakfast crowd. Sara leaves Mickey in search of coffee. She knows all she needs to do is sit down at a table and a waiter will appear offering some. Skaters and staff and friends and families are all mingling. It’s always so relaxed once the actual competition is over and only the exhibition is left. Sara doesn’t want to be here. She wants to be in bed and relive the night, shut out the world and hide with her hand between her thighs until she comes again. And again, and again, and again.

She finds an empty table for four and slumps down, knowing Mickey will find her eventually because he always does, and Emil will find Mickey, because he always does.

The table closest to hers is fully occupied. Sara can make out voices, and they sound familiar, but she is so tired, and still so high.

“Mari, what is this I hear about you not sleeping in your bed last night?” Victor Nikiforov’s voice, speaking his elegant well-practised English and definitely teasing.

Another voice cuts in, speaking Japanese, „Mari-neechan“ something or other, though the tone is the same as Victors, teasing with a hint of protective.

Sara looks up then, remembering her manners and that she hasn’t had a chance to congratulate him on his silver medal yet.

„Hi Yuuri!“ She masters a smile and four heads at the next table turn towards her. There is always something about meeting Yuuri Katsuki that makes her feel like someone switched on the sun.

„Congratulations on your silver! Even though I feel you have been robbed.“ She winks at him.

„Sara! Good morning! Thank you very much!“ Yuuri is being Yuuri, jumping up from his seat a little flustered as he does what is polite and starts proper introductions. Sara rises too, crosses the small distance that separates their tables, to shake hands. Victor, of course, as if Sara doesn’t know. Yuuri’s ballet teacher from home, he calls her Minako-sensei.

Smiling politely, Sara finds herself face to face with a pair of brown eyes. Bleached hair. Ten piercings that she can see, and three she knows she cannot.

„And this is my sister, Mari.“

Yuuri smiles.

_A smile flashed up at her in the moonlight that carried a spark of familiarity._

The bottom falls out of Sara’s world.

**Author's Note:**

> I. Don’t even know.  
> All I wanted was to write about Sara having a little fun by herself inspired by Italian music. Then someone mentioned Mari. Then someone mentioned smut. Then an idea _did not form_ in my head, it was fully formed and taking shape.  
> Surprise. Yuuri sent me his sister. I have decided to treat these little one-shot ideas out of nowhere as writing practice. But. I am genuinely terrified now of what this family will make me write next. So. Any other members of this family come knocking on my writing door, I’m going to bolt it unless it’s Mama Katsuki with her katsudon recipe.  
> I need a cold shower now.  
> *sorrynotsorry*
> 
> The song lyrics quoted are from Melissa Etheridge's "You can sleep while I drive".


End file.
